


Whatever Makes You Happy

by wordquandary



Category: Sherlock (TV), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordquandary/pseuds/wordquandary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He was a mutant, a freak, a ‘plague upon the planet’ as he’d once heard it described.</i> Sherlock struggles for control over his power – X-Men fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock BBC | John/Sherlock | PG-13 | 15,900 | beta: lillyankh | disclaimer: the show and the characters aren't mine. Title from Radiohead's Creep.
> 
> Written for [](http://sciosophia.livejournal.com/profile)[ **sciosophia**](http://sciosophia.livejournal.com/) 's birthday.  Extra special thanks to [](http://lillyankh.livejournal.com/profile)[ **lillyankh**](http://lillyankh.livejournal.com/)   without whom this fic would not have been possible.   
> 

_**Whatever Makes You Happy** _

In the past, people had disputed the term ‘mutant’.  It was accurate but there were mutants out there who felt it demeaned them, made them sound like monsters.  They preferred terms such as ‘gifted’, ‘blessed’, ‘evolved’.  Sherlock was not one of those people.  

It had taken a while after his mutation had manifested for Sherlock to realise what a curse it was. He knew now that it wasn’t a ‘gift’, wasn’t something to long for. He was a mutant, a freak, a _‘plague upon the planet’_ as he’d once heard it described.

He’d always gotten pleasure from using his power, there was no way he could use his particular ability and not. A single touch of skin on skin was enough.  The rush was incredible, better than any drug he had ever tried, and he had tried them all at one point or another.  

Like most people, his power had been triggered by emotion.  Sherlock had met Sebastian during one of the college formals in his final year at Cambridge.  The combination of black tie, alcohol and lust resulted in an interesting night. In fact, it led to more discoveries than either Sherlock or Sebastian had anticipated.

Sebastian had taken Sherlock down one of the more deserted corridors when they’d been unable to hold back any longer.  Mouths attacked mouths, jaws, necks, collar bones; hands caressed backs, chests, shoulders and hair.  It was exciting, it was intoxicating and then it became even more so – for Sherlock at least.  

Sebastian had frozen in shock and pain as Sherlock steadily drained his life, absorbing it right through his fingertips caressing Sebastian’s neck, through his tongue exploring Seb’s mouth.  

He wouldn’t have stopped, couldn’t have stopped if Mycroft hadn’t suddenly appeared with a stocky blond man and pulled him off.  Sebastian staggered backwards into the wall before his legs gave out and he slid down to the floor, grasping at the carpet, trying to crawl away.  Sherlock fell back into Mycroft’s arms, smiling without a care in the world.  He could feel his pulse throbbing throughout his entire body. He had never felt so _alive_ as he did in that moment.  At the edge of his awareness he noticed the blond man take hold of Sebastian’s arm and saw them both vanish in a sudden flash of light.

When the high finally passed several hours later, Sherlock had been thrilled.  No longer was Mycroft the exalted family member, the only one with power.  And that high – that glorious, breathtaking rush – he would have to try that again.  

Mycroft hadn’t been so delighted.  Apparently, Sebastian was in hospital, only he wasn’t quite the same fresh-faced eighteen year old he had been earlier that night.  From what Mycroft’s doctors could determine, Sherlock’s touch had aged him by at least three to four years.  Thankfully, the physical change was so small that most people wouldn’t recognise it for what it was.  There would be no awkward questions to answer – or, more accurately, no documents to forge and sudden desires to relocate to far-off countries.  Sebastian wouldn’t remember anything once one of Mycroft’s ‘specialists’ had moved in and erased the evening.

Mycroft seemed intent on making Sherlock understand the terrible repercussions of his ability. Sherlock didn’t care.  All he wanted now was to experience that surge of life again and again and again.  How could he ever get bored with all that power flooding through him?

At first, it had been casual touches; little and often, keeping him in a constant state of bliss.  Then he began to want more, to _need_ more.  A touch of hands and a friendly caress were no longer enough.  He started to hold on for longer, letting the life rush through his veins as the high overtook him.  He was still careful.  He’d found that whilst he was connected he could sense the life within a person.  It allowed him to judge the number of years he would be taking off the other person’s life, allowed him to pull back when that number began to climb too high.  

That had been enough for years, but just as before the highs began to fade.  That was when the ‘accidents’ started.  Mycroft was willing to overlook the first one – with such a dangerous power it was surprising something like this hadn’t happened before.  After number five had finally caught the attention of the police, Mycroft had had no choice but to step in.  Sherlock was getting out of hand, and in a world where mutants were being locked away and experimented on, he was asking for trouble.  

The withdrawal had not been pretty.  Sherlock had been riding an almost continuous high for nearly eight years by that point and he was not giving it up without a fight.  In the end, Mycroft had been left with two choices – solitary confinement, or sending him to Xavier’s Institute for Higher Learning.  The Institute had better mutant knowledge than anywhere else in the world – if they couldn’t help Sherlock control himself then Mycroft would do what was necessary.  He hoped it wouldn’t come to that; depriving Sherlock of stimuli to occupy his mind would be worse than death.  With that threat hovering over his head, Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to go to America.

He had been assigned a regenerator to guard him.  The idea had been that even if Sherlock gave in and managed to start draining the regenerator’s life, they would survive and be none the worse for it.  It was almost a perfect plan, there was just one small flaw – it gave Sherlock a steady supply of his favourite high.  

It took only two weeks before Sherlock was stealing touches from his guard, Victor Trevor.  Just like his addiction, it had started small.  Victor had refused anything more and, unlike the others, he kept enough strength to fight Sherlock off.  By the third week they were stealing kisses as well.  

To Sherlock, it was simply an easy way to get his next hit without any of the adverse consequences Mycroft had lectured him about.  To Victor it was the thrill he longed for. With his ability adrenaline rushes were hard to come by. Injuries could be healed within minutes and when you could live indefinitely things just tended to repeat themselves.  To Victor, Sherlock was the perfect solution.  Each time it felt like he was dying, each time it felt like he was _alive_.  Mutual highs steadily brought them together.

By the end of the fifth week something had shifted in their relationship.  It was no longer about satisfying their own addictions, but more and more about giving the other that rush.  

They managed to keep their kisses and caresses a secret from the others at the school.  There was no doubt in either of their minds about what would happen if anyone caught them, if the hushed rumours were found to be true. But good things seldom last and it was the same for mutants as it was for normal people.  

After two months, they decided to take their relationship further.  Sherlock had never had sex with anyone before; when a single touch can kill, sex had been a foolish idea.  Even when that had begun to matter less, normal people just weren’t able to survive the prolonged contact necessary to begin such an act.  Victor was different.  Sherlock could touch Victor as much as he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and Victor wouldn’t age a day.

It had been the biggest high Sherlock had ever experienced.  Victor’s emotions – excitement, lust, love – mingled with Sherlock’s own as his life coursed through his body.  It wasn’t like a hunger since he would never feel full, but more a sense of energy, a string on a violin that could be pulled tighter and tighter, producing higher and higher notes, and would never snap.  It was thrilling and soothing all at once.  Time seemed to slow, his eyes picked up on more details than he could normally account for.  The smooth, naked torso spread out under him. Sherlock had never felt more alive.

It had been wonderful; the feel of Victor’s hands over his naked body, his lips against Sherlock’s thighs. Victor’s mouth on Sherlock was bliss.  The high that surged through him at that moment was what every junkie dreamed of.  

He didn’t notice how pale Victor’s skin was turning, didn’t notice how hard his heart was working to keep blood pumping through his veins or the dark hair draining of pigment. He didn’t notice the small voice in the back of his head alerting him to a nearly drained body.  Sherlock was lost in his headspace, lost in the sensations assaulting him; even the air felt like it was gently kissing his exposed skin.  Victor pulled off just as Sherlock came, but instead of rolling away he slumped on top of Sherlock, no longer able to find the energy to break the contact that was steadily killing him.  Sherlock rode his post-orgasm high into oblivion.

~ ~ ~

When he came to, Victor was sprawled across his chest.  At first, Sherlock hadn’t taken stock of what that meant; he could still feel Victor’s life pulsing through his veins.  Nevertheless, Victor was heavy and Sherlock needed the bathroom.  With a few gentle nudges, Sherlock tried to rouse him.  Gentle nudges quickly become frantic shoves as he rolled Victor off of his chest.  The motionless, pale body fell limply to the side.

It wasn’t the pure white hair or paper thin skin that frightened him; it was the eyes.  He had never been truly scared before, but staring into those lifeless eyes filled with resignation made Sherlock’s stomach turn in revulsion.  Victor had known, there at the end, that he wasn’t going to live through this.  Had he tried calling out to Sherlock?  Had he asked him to stop, to back away?  He couldn’t remember.  He felt sick.  

He knew he had to leave, but this wasn’t like the others; this was someone he _cared_ about – _had_ cared about.  He grabbed his bags, shoving in what few clothes and possessions he had and ran.  Mycroft would already know what had happened, he always knew thanks to his infernal mutation. The ability to take his mind anywhere with a single thought meant he was always watching Sherlock, the bastard.  He had to admit, even if only begrudgingly, that it did sometimes come in useful. In most likelihood, a clean up crew were already on their way.  

Victor Trevor would disappear – ran away with Sherlock back to London.  The gossip would cover up any suspicions people might have about their relationship and hide their simultaneous disappearances.  Only the higher ups at the school might be suspicious, but with a few suggestions here and psychic barriers there no one would ever need know.  The professor probably knew, but with his ability he’d know it had not been done maliciously.  There was no danger to fear from him unless you counted unwanted sympathy.

Sherlock ran; he didn’t care where.  The only thing he needed was his destination to be far away and devoid of people.  The open grounds of the estate suddenly gave way to the surrounding trees and still he ran.  He could feel the remnants of his high, could feel Victor’s life force pumping through his body.  He couldn’t take it any more, he had to get rid of it.  

Sherlock slowed to a stop, dry heaving.  It didn’t make any difference, of course.  Life energy wasn’t some three course meal that settled in your gastric system; it filled every cell in your body via some mutated form of osmosis.  You couldn’t simply vomit it back out.  Logically knowing it made no difference, Sherlock couldn’t stop the dry heaves from wracking his body.

He had no idea what he would do now.  Mycroft would no doubt be furious, isolating him away from others.  Wasn’t that what Sherlock wanted?  To be locked away from harming anyone else?  Yes, he’d killed before, but it hadn’t seemed important at the time; his high was all that had mattered.  To kill someone he cared for, someone he was possibly starting to _love_ ; it could never happen again.  If it meant he had to spend the rest of his life locked away he would take it – if it meant he never had to feel like this again, feel this gut-wrenching despair and self-loathing, he could take it.  

When his stomach settled – his body finally accepting the futility of the act – he slumped down onto the cold ground with his back against a nearby tree.  He had never felt so lonely, perhaps because he had never really considered just how truly terrible his ‘ _gift_ ’ was.  Before, he had always been too lost in the high to truly consider the impact it had.  This had been the biggest rush of his life and yet for the first time the consequences outweighed the high.

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest, and waited for Mycroft’s men to find him.  It was only then that he realised he had been crying the entire time.

~ ~ ~

Mycroft had flown Sherlock back to England and, just as Sherlock had predicted, had placed him in solitary confinement.  

It wasn’t as bad as it might have been.  Mycroft could be a bastard but he still cared about his brother.  There were no white padded cells, just a small flat in London with twenty-four-seven surveillance and guards just seconds away in case of any escape attempts.

For the first couple of days, Sherlock had served his penance in peace, but it wasn’t long until he had grown bored.  He had deduced the origin and history of every item in the flat, knew the intimate details of his guards lives despite only brief glimpses of them – there was nothing to do.

With nothing to occupy his mind, Sherlock found himself reliving his times with Victor.  The memory of the highs was torture.  However, time had dimmed the sensation memories and now he needed more.  Each time he tried to escape, Mycroft’s guards caught him.  Telekinesis was a hateful ability.  

After every failed escape attempt the other memories from his time with Victor would assault him.  Their last night together – the rush of emotions that had overwhelmed him, the feel of bare skin touching so intimately – but it all inevitably ended with the emptiness and fear.  Each time the pleasant memories faded just that little bit more, but the nightmares never lessened.

Mycroft wasn’t oblivious to Sherlock’s plight; he couldn’t be when part of his mind was always with him.  He knew Sherlock needed a distraction, something to stop his mind dwelling on Victor.

For as long as Mycroft could remember, Sherlock had been fascinated with puzzles; following the correct trail of logical conclusions and solving the mystery. As Sherlock got older the mysteries had become more elaborate – crime in particular had always interested him.  It seemed as good a distraction as any.

It wasn’t hard for Mycroft to arrange a deal with the Met.  Mycroft could order them to work with Sherlock, but without trust and respect any answers Sherlock provided would simply be ignored.  

Detective Inspector Lestrade’s profile fit perfectly.  All policemen want to help or else they wouldn’t have joined the force, however for most their duty can fall by the wayside when personal pride is at stake.  Not Lestrade, though.  Lestrade could be proud and he could be stubborn, but he would always put finding the criminals first.  The fact that he was also good at his job without Sherlock’s help was a bonus.

Every week, case files were brought to Sherlock’s flat for him to peruse and study.  They weren’t the most challenging of cases, but they kept the dark corners of his mind occupied.  Despite only seeing the reports of others and crime scene photographs, Sherlock solved them all.  Sometimes he needed more data than the files offered so he conducted his own experiments. The Montague Street flat looked more like a laboratory than living quarters nowadays.

As Sherlock’s mood improved he was gradually allowed visitors.  At first, Mycroft came round to check up on his progress once a week, which slowly became every other day.  Lestrade would be allowed to visit upon occasion, usually when there was a particularly troublesome case that he needed help on.  As much as Sherlock was frustrated by the isolation each time someone visited, the fear of what he could do with an accidental touch reminded him of why it was necessary in the first place.

He promised himself that he would never touch another person or allow them to touch him again.  He couldn’t afford another Victor Trevor incident.  Sherlock’s cravings for skin contact had lessened after the months of being clean, but there was still a risk, there would always be a risk.  It was easy to keep his promise around Mycroft and Lestrade, when both parties were careful the danger was minimal, but it would be a different story outside with the rest of world.

Despite the dangers, Sherlock managed to persuade Mycroft to let him out for a trial period.  It was only to a crime scene and he was monitored closely by guards, but he was outside, somewhere other than the small flat.  He had taken every precaution he could think of – long coat and full suit; gloves, despite the mild weather – the less skin exposed the lower the chance of accidental touches.

The best way to avoid contact with people, Sherlock found out early on, was to not allow anyone to get close.  He didn’t have to try too hard to distance himself from the other officers at the crime scene; just a few observations about their private lives and he was avoided like the plague.  Some, such as Sergeant Donovan, had more steel than the others.  No matter the observations Sherlock made, Donovan stood her ground. Her expression became more fierce but her stance never wavered.  Sherlock grudgingly found himself respecting her, despite his wishes that she would take the hint and leave – he might be over the constant craving, but that didn’t mean that everyone here wasn’t a temptation for him.  Mind over matter.  

At first, the guards followed Sherlock everywhere he went, but as time passed they backed off further and further until eventually Sherlock was allowed to wander around London unhindered.  Mycroft was still keeping an eye on him with his mind, but it was no different to how life had been before.

All in all Sherlock’s life was finally back in his control.  He occasionally missed the highs and when there was a dry spell of cases his mind would take him back to that terrible night, but he never succumbed.  The lack of human contact and the omnipresent temptation made him cold, short tempered and easily frustrated – it was a small price to pay. With no friends there was no one he could hurt.

Then the war between mutants and humans really kicked off.  It had been on and off for years, but after the mutant battles that had been happening in America, especially after what had happened with the Golden Gate bridge, people were scared.  It didn’t matter that there was now a ‘cure’ or that there was a mutant on the United Nations; people were driven by their emotions and they were afraid.  

When the landlord at Montague Street discovered his tenant was not only a mutant but a dangerous one at that, Sherlock had been evicted.  He could have let Mycroft deal with it, a simple memory wipe would do the trick – or buying the property from the imbecile if one wanted to stick to conventional methods – but Sherlock didn’t mind moving on.  He had fought against his nature in that flat and won, yet it would always be a reminder of why he had needed to fight it at all.

He found a lovely place on Baker Street.  It was a little out of his price range so he’d have to find a flatmate, but it was the clean break he needed.  Mycroft’s surveillance would undoubtedly be insufferable for the first few weeks until Sherlock had proven he wasn’t about to drain them, but it was a new challenge.  It would be an easy test to beat.

He hadn’t anticipated Doctor John Watson.

~ ~ ~

John had always had a knack for knowing how things worked.  Whenever his father’s car had broken down, John had always known what was wrong with it.  He could look at machinery and see how every piece fitted together.  It took concentration to examine a fully functional object but if something broke he could recognise what was wrong instantly.  It didn’t mean he knew how to fix it but he always knew where the problem lay.  

Human bodies were just another type of machine to John.  He could tell you if someone had a weak heart or a cracked rib without any need for tests.  Human bodies fascinated him – the way they repaired themselves without any conscious thought.  Becoming a doctor had been the only career choice John had considered; how could he not with the possibilities his mutation had for healing those in need?

He’d never told anyone outside his family about what he could do and he’d only told them because he was fed up of being blamed for all the household appliances they thought he broke.  He wasn’t ashamed of what he could do, but since no one needed to know there was no need to tell anyone.  It meant that when he joined the army and was shipped out to Afghanistan he was treated like one of the men and not an animal.  Officially the army welcomed mutants – they made invaluable weapons after all – however the reality was that when they weren’t ignored, mutants were treated with the utmost disdain.  

John stuck up for his fellow mutants as much as he could without drawing suspicion to himself. If anyone found out it would inevitably lead to questions as to why he’d never come forward before – as if the reason wasn’t obvious to anyone who wandered the camp for more than ten minutes.  As a medic, John worked alongside several mutants with abilities helpful in healing the wounded.  There was one John got on particularly well with and who the other men seemed to bully the most – Doctor Katy Phillips.  

She was a brilliant doctor with the ability to lessen pain or even take it away entirely; invaluable out in the field.  John never fully understood why the others picked on her more than any of the other mutants in camp, but the bullying she received was painful to watch.  John did his best to protect her, but there was only so much he could do.  

One soldier in particular seemed incapable of accepting Phillips’ presence on the base, Colonel Sebastian Moran.  Moran was the ringleader of the tyranny, never missing an opportunity to ‘put the mutants in their place’.  It all seemed rather stupid to John, personal bias aside, to abuse and mistreat those who would more than likely be saving your life one day.  Then again, no one had ever accused Colonel Moran of being overly bright.

Inevitably the day came when Moran was carried in with a bullet wound to the jaw.  He had been taken straight to Phillips whilst the other doctors, including John, had attended to the other injured members of Moran’s team.  John had gone to check on Phillips’ progress – he knew she was a more than capable doctor, but army policy stated that mutant personnel were to be supervised to ensure the proper use of their abilities.  

It had taken just one look at Moran for John to know there was a problem other than his shattered jaw.  Every organ in his body was slowly shutting down, as if his body had forgotten they were there.  John looked up at Phillips and saw the faint stirrings of a smile behind her mask of concentration.  It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.  

As soon as he realised what was happening, he pulled Phillips away from Moran and got to work fixing the broken body in front of him.  Amongst the background noise he could hear Phillips’ desperate explanations, but now wasn’t the time to listen to the confessions of a guilty conscience. Right now he had a man whose body was slowly shutting down.

In the end John managed to save Moran’s life.  His jaw would have to be wired shut from the bullet wound but there was no lasting damage.  Part of John thought he wouldn’t have minded had he gone to check on Phillips just a few minutes later, if he’d arrived too late to save the bastard.  He wouldn’t have deserved it – no one did – but John had to admit that there would have been a certain sense of justice to it.  

He had hoped to keep it quiet, between Phillips and himself.  He knew he should report it, but after all the abuse she’d been receiving, John sympathised with her.  He didn’t necessarily _approve_ , but he understood.  The problem was that Phillips had been in full apology mode when the other medics had come in to help John.  By now, the entire base would know.  

To John’s surprise, it took two days for things to come to a head.

John had been walking back from the mess when he’d seen it.  Phillips was surrounded by at least twelve men.  John had missed the first punch and by the time he arrived on scene the crowd was well on its way to beating the life out of Phillips’ petite frame.  John stepped in to protect her before he’d even realised what he was doing.  He tried to drag some of the men off of her, but it was pointless.  For every soldier he dragged back, another took their place.  Changing tactics, John dived straight in, fighting his way through the scrum to get to Phillips herself.  

She looked terrible.  There was blood running down her chin from hits to the mouth, her nose was broken and her left eye was already swelling shut; she had three cracked ribs and damage to her abdominal region, two fingers on her right hand had been broken and her knuckles were bloodied, probably from where she’d tried to fight back. Her eyes were clear from pain, though. One of the advantages to her mutation, John supposed. As John covered her with his own body the others began trying to pull him off so they could get back to their target.  It was reassuring that they were aware enough not to attack one of their own.

Then some over-eager idiot had drawn his gun.  With a shaking hand he aimed at John, who was still protecting Phillips with his body.  John tried to talk him down, along with half the other soldiers now gathered around them.  Unfortunately the guy standing next to the gun man had seen the soldier’s weak grip and tried to wrest the gun away from him. Clearly he hadn’t considered what such an action might have on a scared new recruit who had suddenly found himself aiming at one of his men.  

John didn’t remember much of what followed.  The gun had fired and there had been a searing pain in his left shoulder.  The shock of how out of hand things had become stopped anyone moving in to resume the attack on Doctor Phillips.  Instead, she reached out for John and, with her hand resting on his ankle, the pain had slowly begun to fade.  There was another shot – someone later explained to him they’d thought she was killing him – and the pain suddenly rushed back with full intensity.  Only now there was a new pain, an agony in his right leg.  With probing fingers he felt for the new wound, but there was nothing there – no entry point, no damage at all.  

Rolling onto his back he had seen Phillips clutching at her leg, blood staining the ground beneath her as she continued to bleed out through her femoral artery.  John’s last thought before succumbing to the shock and pain was that he should have done more.

~ ~ ~

In London John was more thankful than ever that he’d omitted the truth about his mutation.  The army pension he was given wasn’t enough as it was; God knows how he’d have survived with even less.  Still, part of John felt like it was his due.  He’d stood by and watched as day after day mutants were bullied and abused around him.  He’d been a selfish coward to not do more, to not step forward and admit he was one too.  Then again, the self-preservation instinct is strong, and what good would it do to just be another one of the abused?

No matter the arguments that filled his head, the shame for not doing more lingered.  His therapist said it was post traumatic stress disorder, that the limp was a symptom proving her point.  It was hard to keep seeing her knowing how wrong she had it, but it was expected of him.  He wouldn’t tell her of the real reason behind his return to England.  In the files it stated there had been a friendly fire incident, killing Doctor Phillips and wounding Major John Watson.  Only those that had been there knew any differently, and with the official secrets act no one was going to be finding out any time soon.

John’s life had become a dull monotony.  Every night he’d have nightmares about that fight, every morning he’d wake up in a cold sweat with his leg in agony from remembered pain that had never been his own.  John knew that physically he was working perfectly. He didn’t need his ability to tell him that, but mentally he was a broken man and John didn’t know how to fix it.

Then he’d been introduced to Sherlock Holmes.

John had suspected Sherlock was a mutant ever since their first meeting. Surely it wasn’t normal to be able to read that much about a person with one glance? And if Sherlock was a mutant then maybe this was the best way to clear his conscience.

Living with Sherlock was everything John needed.  He had a purpose again, a reason to get out of bed in the morning, a reason to keep going.  His life might be considered mad by others, but to John it was perfect.  The rush of adrenaline and the thrill of each chase helped him forget what had brought him here in the first place.  For the first time in a long while, John felt like he didn’t need to hide.  He still hadn’t told Sherlock about his ability, but he wasn’t scared of being cast out or degraded if he did.  Sherlock treated everyone like an inferior anyway.

As the weeks passed, their friendship grew, and the mutant topic was carefully avoided.  John had no reason to suspect Sherlock knew about his ability and John was far too polite to ask Sherlock directly about his.  Everything John had seen so far suggested that he’d been right about Sherlock from the start.

It wasn’t until three months after he’d moved in with Sherlock that he found out just how wrong he’d been.

~ ~ ~

John was waiting with Lestrade as the inspector arrested the two jewel thieves Sherlock had been chasing.  True to form, Sherlock had buggered off home already leaving John with Lestrade to tidy things up.

Despite working alongside Inspector Lestrade for quite some time now, John didn’t really know that much about the man.  Sherlock was the only close acquaintance John had who knew him, and if Sherlock cared enough about Lestrade’s history he hadn’t bothered to inform John.  You don’t need to know a man’s life story to judge whether or not you like them though, and John definitely liked Lestrade.  He had an air about him, a cool determination to crime solving that worked well with Sherlock’s manic style.  In many ways he was like a father figure to Sherlock; letting him make mistakes when the consequences could be controlled, but using a firm hand when needed.  It also helped that Lestrade was a fine copper in his own right.

“Sometimes I think I’m too old to be chasing criminals all over London,” John said watching the clean up. “I can barely keep up with Sherlock when he starts leaping buildings or climbing fences.”

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short,” Lestrade replied, leaving the criminals for Sergeant Donovan to process. “I could never keep up with him even before the whole...”  Lestrade made a vague gesture towards his face.

“Yeah, isn’t ageing fun?” John said sarcastically.

Lestrade hesitated, confused. “He hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Oh God, please tell me you knew he was a mutant before this conversation.”

“Of course I did.” Well, he’d suspected.  He had a feeling the fact that Sherlock hadn’t told him explicitly might not be pleasant news to Lestrade.

“So you know all about what he can do then?”

“The deductions, right?”  Judging by Lestrade’s horrified expression, that would be a no.

“He hasn’t told you what he can do? You’ve been living with him for, what?  Three months now?  And he hasn’t told you?”  Lestrade was panicked, his eyes wide with fear.  John could only assume the fear was _for_ him rather than a reaction to Sherlock being a mutant and John’s calm acceptance.  Lestrade didn’t strike him as being a mutant basher.

“Well, no.  Not exactly.  I just assumed, what with pulling answers out of midair, that his power was related to his deductions.  I take it I’m wrong?”

“You could say that.”  Lestrade quickly looked over his shoulder at the officers shepherding the two thieves into a police car at the opposite end of the alleyway. “I just need to talk to Donovan and then I’ll explain.  There’s a pub just round the corner, meet there?”

John nodded and made his way to the pub Lestrade had pointed him towards.  So he’d been wrong about Sherlock’s power, very wrong if Lestrade’s reaction had been anything to go by.  Thankfully, he wasn’t waiting long before Lestrade joined him at the small table he’d chosen in the quietest corner of the room.

“John, how old would you say I am?”  Lestrade began without preamble.

“I, well, I don’t know really.  Late forties, maybe very early fifties?”

“But not thirty-seven.”  It wasn’t a question, more of a resigned statement of fact.

“No, sorry.  So you’re thirty-seven?”  Lestrade definitely did not look his age if that was the case.  John knew that some people went prematurely grey, but it wasn’t just his hair.  Lestrade’s face was not that of a thirty-seven year old; there were lines around his eyes and his skin had lost the elasticity of youth.  

“Hard to believe isn’t it?  But that’s what hanging around with Sherlock will get you I suppose.  Guess I thought the risk was worth it since I’m still doing it.”  

None of it made much sense to John.  How had Sherlock taken nearly ten years from the man standing in front of him?   _Why_ would he have taken ten years from him?  John’s lack of comprehension must have shown on his face.  “It was an accident,” Lestrade said. “He doesn’t drain people like he used to, but that’s a story you’ll have to ask him about.  Sherlock is one of those mutants people use to push for the cure being compulsory, while others see it for the curse it is.  Any skin contact, any at all, and Sherlock’s body starts absorbing your life force, for lack of a better term.  It ages you and if he holds on long enough it will kill you.  It’s not his fault, and he takes every precaution he can when he’s out and about, but there’s always a risk.”

John didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say.  He’d figured Sherlock was a mutant, but he’d never thought his _gift_ would be anything like what Lestrade was describing.  He pitied Sherlock.  No skin contact meant no physical comfort, or at least extremely difficult forms of physical comfort.  How long had Sherlock been like this?  All his life?  However long it had been it was enough to explain Sherlock’s more prickly characteristics.  

Sherlock was an idiot, too.  Three months and not once had he mentioned the possibly fatal consequences of living with him.  Lestrade said he took precautions when he was out and about. However, John had seen Sherlock walking around the flat with shirt sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone.  Admittedly, having his top button undone wasn’t going to cause many problems, with their relationship being strictly platonic (Sherlock’s choice, not John’s, and didn’t that make a lot more sense now?).  The rolled up sleeves, on the other hand, were practically a death trap.  How many times had John passed him a cup of tea or a pen or his phone?  How many times had John been millimetres away from having the life drained out of him?  How could Sherlock have been so reckless?

John’s mind was spinning with revelations as each small piece of information he had gathered about Sherlock fell into a new picture.  It was like he’d been spending this whole time trying to put together the jigsaw puzzle of Sherlock’s life, only he’d been using the wrong image as a guide. The pieces were the same, but the final construction was unlike anything he’d expected.

“So...so how did Sherlock,” John gestured to Lestrade, “drain you?”

~ ~ ~

**Two Years Ago**

Another case and yet again Sherlock had gone running ahead without waiting for back up.  When Mycroft had come to him asking for cases to keep his brother entertained, Lestrade had had no idea that this would become his life.  Chasing after Sherlock, always arriving just in time to save his sorry hide; so far.  There was a first time for everything.

As he ran up the last few steps he could hear the fight waging inside the deserted office. Was that _burning_ he could smell?  Suppressing a sigh, he forced the door open.

The acrid smell of charred flesh was stronger inside the room.  There were scorch marks along the nearest wall in front of which stood Sherlock.  He was hunched over, his hands carefully pressed against his chest.  Lestrade knew the wisps of smoke coming from under those hands were not his imagination.  

Opposite Sherlock stood the man they’d been looking for.  He didn’t look anywhere near as bad as Sherlock did, but he was by no means unscathed; blood was flowing freely from his nose and his left eye was going to be black in the morning.

Lestrade had intended to join in the fray, to split the guy’s focus.  He hadn’t anticipated Sherlock turning to him, shouting for him to leave. With the new angle he could see the exposed skin of Sherlock’s chest, blistered and raw from the fireball that must have hit it’s mark.

Sherlock’s distraction allowed the fireball toting criminal enough time to reach for one of the wooden desk chairs and swing it at him, knocking him out cold.  With the momentum and the way Sherlock was practically bent double, the attack threw him across the room, straight into Lestrade.  He hadn’t had time to brace himself before Sherlock was on top of him, but he’d instinctively thrown his hand out in a vain attempt of holding Sherlock back.  It hadn’t been enough to stop them both tumbling to the floor in a heap, Sherlock collapsed across Lestrade’s chest, pinning his extended hand.  Normally, it wouldn’t have mattered.  Lestrade was no weakling, he could easily push an unconscious Sherlock Holmes off of him.  Easily, that is, if Lestrade’s hand wasn’t now firmly pressed against Sherlock’s bare chest.

Lestrade had been told all about Sherlock’s ability when he’d first agreed to work with him.  It hadn’t mattered to him what Sherlock could do, just as long as he got results.  However, there was a difference between being told something and experiencing it first hand.

He hadn’t expected the paralysing weakness that settled over him, the tingling of pins and needles throughout every muscle or the sudden surge of adrenaline creating the paradoxical sensation of surging life while it was steadily taken from him by the unconscious form of Sherlock Holmes.  

Initially, Lestrade had panicked.  There was no way he’d be able to push Sherlock away, not in this condition.  His only hope was that Sherlock would come to before he drained him completely, preferably before he took too many years.  He could feel the skin healing against the back of his hand as Sherlock’s body put Lestrade’s life to use. He prayed it would heal fast enough.

Lestrade’s panic didn’t last long; he wasn’t sure whether that was a worrying failure on behalf of his self-preservation instinct or a direct result of what Sherlock was doing to him.  Whatever the cause, Lestrade was beginning to resign himself to his fate.  There was nothing he could do but wait and see what happened first, Sherlock’s return to consciousness or his death.

Just then Sherlock’s eyes began to flicker.  Calling on what little strength he could muster Lestrade tried shouting Sherlock’s name. It came out as a strangled whimper.  Sherlock’s eyes blinked open.  Part of Lestrade’s mind recognised the dilated pupils often seen on drug users, but the vast majority of his mind was focused on trying to get Sherlock off of him.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock’s brain to kick back into its usual high gear, to notice Lestrade’s steadily weakening body, the slight touch of grey in his hair and the deeper frown lines on his face.  Sherlock immediately recoiled, staggering backwards as he fought the almost overpowering desire to feed his high.  

Lestrade was left lying on the floor, too weak to check himself over, to determine just how much of his life Sherlock had taken.  It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, Lestrade knew that, at the same time he knew Sherlock had just taken years away from him.  True, he could still be killed in an accident tomorrow, but when you find yourself years older in the space of just a minute, logic is not a comfort.  He couldn’t get angry at Sherlock, couldn’t shout accusations or demand his life back; he could barely find the strength to roll onto his side.  Sherlock’s horrified expression would have made Lestrade hold his tongue even if he had been able to shout.

Sherlock’s terror at what he had just done outweighed anything Lestrade had seen before, and in his line of work terror came with the territory.  Lestrade watched as Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, using a nearby desk for support, before stumbling his way to a small heap of dark fabric Lestrade had failed to notice earlier.  Sherlock’s coat, Lestrade realised belatedly as Sherlock beat the dirt out.  With slightly jerky movements he slipped it on and pulled it closed, hiding the charred remains of his shirt and his freshly healed chest.

Sherlock looked back over at Lestrade, still lying on the floor trying to muster enough strength to even sit upright.

“How bad?”  Lestrade asked with a wheeze.

Sherlock’s gaze took in all the details of Lestrade’s face, all the changes it had recently undergone. “Roughly ten years,” Sherlock said.  He couldn’t look at Lestrade as he said it, casting his eyes downwards.  Instead he began pacing the room, at one point sweeping his arm along a desk hurling everything to the floor.  He couldn’t seem to stand still – too wired from his latest hit.

Ten years wasn’t so bad. He’d been imagining horrors, of being grey and wrinkly, looking more like eighty-five than his actual thirty-five years.  Ten years he could live with; it might not be _ideal_ , but it wasn’t the end of the world.  

“Not your fault,” Lestrade told Sherlock.  It was an attempt to calm him down, to show him that it could have been worse, that there was no need for self-flagellation.  It didn’t work.  Sherlock stopped pacing, turning rapidly to face Lestrade, coat swirling out behind him.  Sherlock’s expression was incredulous, but before he could voice his thoughts the sound of back up arriving could be heard outside.

Sherlock cut off his no doubt scathing reply and went back to pacing, muttering under his breath.  He made no attempt to flee despite the questions he’d undoubtedly be assaulted with once Donovan and the others showed up.  It was only then that Lestrade noted the absence of the fireball maniac.  He must have fled as soon as Sherlock had been knocked unconscious.  They’d have to start the search again, only this time he’d add in the bit about fireballs.

When Donovan arrived at the scene, Lestrade had managed to pull together enough strength to sit up.  He still needed a wall to support him, but it was an improvement to lying sprawled on his back.  Sally took one look around the room before rushing over to Lestrade’s side, calling for the paramedics to be brought up.   _Fat lot of good they’ll be_ , Lestrade thought.

“Sir?  Sir, what the hell happened here?”  Sally asked him.  Time for the inevitable questions.  Lestrade rapidly tried to think of an answer he could give without implicating Sherlock.  He knew he needed to stick to the truth as much as possible.  His mind wasn’t exactly working at it’s usual pace right now, and the smaller the lie the less likely Donovan would notice.  

“The blackmailer you were after was a mutant,” Sherlock said, saving Lestrade from answering.  He was still pacing back and forth, he hadn’t even acknowledged the others’ arrival.

“He did this?  How?”  Lestrade could see the silent horror in her eyes as she noted the small yet distinct changes to his physical appearance.

“I don’t know!  It doesn’t matter, does it?” Sherlock yelled.  The sudden change in volume startled everyone, Lestrade included.  It seemed Sherlock was still riding his high.  This was bad, this was very bad.  Sherlock sober was a force to be reckoned with.  There was not a doubt in Lestrade’s mind that a sober Sherlock could come up with a perfectly plausible explanation for Lestrade’s sudden ageing.  A high Sherlock was less predictable.  There was a very real risk that he would inadvertently give the game away

“It’s alright, Sherlock.  It’s alright,” Lestrade tried to reassure him.  “Concussion,” he muttered to Sally. “Hit with a chair.” Sherlock’s usually eccentric behaviour combined with a supposed concussion would hopefully lay any suspicions to rest before they had time to fully form.  The dried blood from the blow was still congealed in Sherlock’s mussed hair; even if the wound itself had disappeared, it would help sell the concussion story as long as no one looked too closely.

Sally nodded, stepping aside to let one of the paramedics in to get a proper look at Lestrade.  He wouldn’t find anything, Lestrade already knew that, but it was important to go through the motions now more than ever.

Lestrade watched Sherlock fend off another paramedic.  Sherlock was babbling, his speech erratic and repetitive as the poor paramedic tried to ascertain the extent of Sherlock’s injuries.  Eventually, if reluctantly, Sherlock allowed the paramedic to gently probe his scalp with gloved fingers.  Lestrade had never seen someone so uncomfortable or afraid of being checked over by a medic. Then again he’d never known anyone to have such a valid reason for it.

The paramedics had realised that Lestrade wouldn’t be able to make it out of the building under his own power – something Lestrade had realised before they’d even arrived.  He refused to be wheeled out on a gurney, though – he wasn’t actually injured after all, just weakened and he’d be damned if he had to go through the indignity of being wheeled out of the building.  Thankfully, Sally and one of the other officers she’d brought with her offered to help carry him.  With an arm around each shoulder, they helped him up.

Sherlock came over, stopping them just before the door.  “I’ll find him again.”  His eyes said everything that he could never express with words – the horror at what he’d done, the self-hatred and, most importantly, the all-consuming remorse.  If Lestrade had ever been in doubt about Sherlock’s emotions, or supposed lack thereof, he wasn’t any more.  

“It wasn’t your fault,” Lestrade told him.  Sherlock shook his head, refusing to accept Lestrade’s forgiveness.  “You were unconscious, it’s not like you could do anything to help.”  With that Lestrade let himself be led out.

~ ~ ~

**Present Day**

Throughout Lestrade’s story John had sat in silence.  What was there to say?  Everything seemed rather pointless and defending Sherlock was unnecessary since Lestrade hadn’t even blamed him at the time.  Accusing Sherlock, running from him, had never even been an option.  

As Lestrade finished he watched John expectantly, waiting for some kind of response.  John just took a long gulp of his beer.  He’d never been overly enamoured with his power; yes it had helped with the medical degree and come in useful from time to time, but there was little he could do with it that any skilled human couldn’t.  Nevertheless, he was happy with it, it was a part of who he was, but to have a power like Sherlock’s?  John honestly didn’t know how Sherlock did it.

“How long has he been like this?” John asked eventually.

“From what I could gather he was a relatively late starter, about twenty-one or something.”   _So not all his life, then_ , John thought.  He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like, to one day suddenly be unable to touch anyone.  He wasn’t sure whether it was a blessing Sherlock hadn’t been like that as a child or whether it was worse to be able to remember the warmth of someone’s skin and know you were denied.

“No wonder he’s so cold with people all the time,” John said.  Lestrade nodded in agreement.  “Look, uh, thanks for telling me.”

“Figured you had a right to know,” Lestrade shrugged. “Plus you seem like the reliable sort.   You’ve stuck around with him this long, can’t see you fleeing now.”

“It’s not quite the same as finding random body parts in the morning though, is it?”

Lestrade laughed. “Fair point.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh Christ, I need to get back to the office and make sure those two are processed properly.”

“No problem,” John said with an amicable smile. “I should be getting back as well; there’s a few things I need to discuss with Sherlock.”

“I still can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, well, that will be one of the many questions I have for him.”

“Best of luck,” Lestrade said as he stood.  “Don’t be too harsh on him, even if he was an idiot.”  With that, Lestrade made his way out of the pub.  John lingered for a little while longer as he thought through what he was going to say to Sherlock.  It needed careful consideration; mutations were a sensitive subject to start with and with Sherlock’s ability he was bound to be more defensive than most.

He couldn’t put it off forever though, and with a sigh he made his way back to the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

John could hear Sherlock fiddling with one of his experiments in the kitchen when he arrived.  He’d spent the entire journey home going over what he was going to say and he still didn’t know.  How were you supposed to casually bring up your flatmate’s potentially lethal mutation in conversation?  If he was going to do it he definitely needed something to fortify him.  Unfortunately, making a cup of tea meant going into the kitchen with Sherlock, and there was no way Sherlock would fail to notice something had changed with John.  At least if Sherlock brought it up himself John wouldn’t have to.  He’d probably already hesitated at the door for too long.  Mentally bracing himself, he pushed open the door to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock had his back towards the door, hunched over his microscope set up on the table – _sleeves rolled up to the elbows_.  Normally, John wouldn’t have cared less, but knowing what he did now put everything in a whole new light.  Sherlock had been alone in the flat until just that second, but even so; he’d known John would be coming home soon and there was no way he had missed his arrival.

 

John made his way around Sherlock towards the kettle – he hoped Sherlock was too preoccupied to notice how his gaze lingered on those bare forearms.  

 

“Make that two cups,” Sherlock said when John only placed one mug on the worktop.  He took down another mug and went about making tea for them both.

 

Against all of John’s fears it wasn’t until he passed Sherlock his tea that Sherlock realised something was up.  Always before John would place Sherlock’s mug right next to his hand; if he didn’t, Sherlock would usually forget about it.  Today he simply left it on the table – within reach but nowhere near as close as he usually put it.  He felt like a bit of coward for doing so, but he dared anyone who had just found out that skin contact with your flatmate could kill you to behave any differently, especially when they’d rolled their sleeves up.  

 

Of course the change in John’s usual pattern did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.  Looking up from the microscope, he gave John one of his patented calculating looks.  John stood his ground, well used to Sherlock’s scrutiny.

 

“What’s the...” Sherlock’s puzzled frown abruptly fell away as he realised the only logical conclusion for John’s sudden change in behaviour. “Who told you?  Was it Mycroft?  I’m sure he loved telling you all about it; all about my sordid past.”  John had never seen Sherlock angry before – pissed off, irritated, frustrated yes, but never truly angry.  “Why now though, hmm?  Why now when he could have driven you off at that first meeting?  Unless– oh!  Of course – _Lestrade_.  Lestrade told you, didn’t he?”  John gave a mute nod – yep, this was going about as well as he’d expected.

 

“Why would Lestrade tell you?” Sherlock continued. “Oh, yes, of course. You two are almost friends now, he’d be concerned and when you didn’t know about my mutation he’d have told you– he told you about that time I drained him, didn’t he?  So much for his supposed lack of blame...”

 

“Sherlock, stop!” John cried.  “Would you let me speak?”

 

“Why on earth should I let you do that?  So that you can tell me you’re leaving?  Isn’t this all rather hypocritical of you, _Doctor_.”

 

“Of course I’m not leaving.  Wait hang on, _hypocritical_?”

 

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, “you don’t think I wasn’t aware of your mutation, do you?”

 

“But I never told anyone!  Well, apart from my parents and Harry and you sure as hell didn’t hear it from them.”  How had this all gotten turned around?  Wasn’t this supposed to be about Sherlock?  Then again, he had been foolish to think that he’d managed to hide anything from the incredible man.  

 

“You’re terrible with technology – honestly, the time it takes for you to write up one of our cases; no wonder you only write up a few.  And yet despite that when I...when your computer broke last month, you knew exactly what was wrong with it, right down to the very component you needed to replace.  It was hardly challenging.”  Really, John shouldn’t be so impressed each time Sherlock showed off, but when he deduced something like that, something John had successfully hidden his entire life, it was hard not to be stunned.

 

“Right, yes, okay, so I’m a mutant and you’ve figured out what I can do, but Sherlock this isn’t about me.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“It wasn’t important.”

 

“It wasn’t...Sherlock!  How is it not bloody important?  You walk around here like that,” John gestured at Sherlock’s rolled up sleeves, “and _it’s not important_?  I can’t even count how many times I could have touched you by accident. I would be _dead_ , Sherlock.  Does that even matter to you?  Was it all some experiment to see how long it would take before you killed me?”  And didn’t that just sound so in character?  Really, the only thing that should surprise him is that it was so surprising.

 

Sherlock scowled. “Don’t be such an idiot.”

 

“So explain it to me!  Why didn’t you tell me?  I can understand not wanting to tell anyone about something like this, but Christ, Sherlock, I _live_ with you.  I had a right to know.”

 

“I couldn’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because then you’d leave!” Sherlock yelled.  It brought them both up short.

 

“I’m not leaving, Sherlock,” John said gently.

 

“You should; I’m not safe to be around,” Sherlock said.

 

John took a step towards Sherlock. “I don’t care.” Sherlock looked at him derisively. “I don’t,” John said.  When Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, he added, “All that stuff before, I just...I suppose I just wish you’d told me yourself.  I promise you, I’m not leaving.”

 

Sherlock’s expression mollified, John’s earnestness finally convincing him.

 

“You really should,” Sherlock said. “I’ve...I’ve made mistakes before.  I haven’t always been so in control.”  John didn’t have to ask what he meant by that.

 

“But you _are_ in control now.  You’re not the same person who made those mistakes.  Lestrade told me how guilty you felt after what happened; I don’t believe you’d ever attack someone maliciously.  I trust you.”

 

Rather than relieved, Sherlock simply looked confused. “Why?”

 

“Why what?”  

 

“Why do you trust me?” Sherlock asked.

 

John’s laugh had an uncomfortable edge to it.  He knew the reason, of course he did, but it wasn’t something he necessarily wanted to admit to a flatmate.  “Only you would question someone’s faith in you.  I don’t know, alright?  We’re friends, that’s what friends do.  Just as I won’t hurt you I trust you not to hurt me.”

 

“No, that’s not it, at least not all of it.  What aren’t you telling me?” Sherlock narrowed his gaze as he scrutinised John once more.  “I’ll get it eventually, why not just tell me now?”

 

John knew it would take Sherlock a while to understand this.  Emotions were his self-confessed weakness, even more so when it came to John.  If he remained silent there was even a very good chance Sherlock would never figure it out. Wasn’t that a rather depressing thought?  Yes, he’d asked after Sherlock’s love life during their first case together, but it had just been curiosity, a topic of conversation, he hadn’t had any particular feelings back then.  Three months had passed since that first day, and John’s feelings had changed from platonic to something more.  He’d trusted Sherlock at the start, of course he had, or else he wouldn’t have moved in with him, but Sherlock was right, the basis of that trust had shifted over the months.  Could he tell Sherlock?  Then again today seemed to be the day for exposing secrets, and after finding out his flatmate could kill him with a single touch, surely telling Sherlock he loved him was easy?

 

John had never been very good at emotional declarations – it was one of the many reasons he and Sarah had broken up – there was no way he was going to be able to explicitly _tell_ Sherlock he loved him.  Then again, with Sherlock he wouldn’t really have to.

 

Decision made he took another step towards Sherlock.  He looked uncertain, as if this was an unexpected outcome – which it probably was.  When he was close enough, John slowly raised his arm.  Sherlock eyed John’s arm like a normal person would look at being handed a spitting cobra.

 

“John…” Sherlock warned, but John ignored him – he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

“Don’t move.”  John said as his fingers closed the distance and brushed against the upper sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt.  Looking up, he smiled at Sherlock’s wide-eyed and slack-jawed expression.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed in awe as they locked eyes.  John could feel Sherlock’s hand as it hesitantly brushed over his jumper-covered chest.  John’s grin widened.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It wasn’t easy maintaining a relationship when you couldn’t touch one another. ‘Spontaneous’ touches always needed some thought beforehand and the most basic intimacies, such as kissing, were denied.  Yet somehow they made it work.  They may not have been able to feel the smooth planes of each other’s skin, but they could feel each other’s warmth through thin cotton shirts; could hold hands if one party wore gloves. Inevitably, it was unlike any relationship John had had before.  

 

Being unable to touch the person you wanted most did cause tensions from time to time.  It didn’t help that Sherlock never made it any easier, in John’s mind at least – walking around in those perfectly tailored clothes that just left John begging for more.  There was also a part of him, small but definitely present, that thought perhaps it was better to not touch.  After all, Sherlock was perfect – beautiful, tall and with a natural elegance to everything he did.  John had no delusions about his own averageness and part of him feared that if he ever did touch Sherlock he would somehow mar that perfection.  It was more than a little bit foolish but there are some worries that just won’t rest.

 

Despite the odd hiccup now and then, they made it work and they were happy.  After a short while, they’d even incorporated sex into their relationship.  It had taken careful planning and consideration but, just like with everything else, they made it work.  They couldn’t go all the way, of course, but latex gloves and partial undress meant that neither of them had to miss out on a healthy sex life.

 

In truth they could have started the sexual aspect of their relationship a lot sooner than they had, but something about Sherlock’s behaviour held John back.  After that pivotal conversation in the kitchen they hadn’t really spoken much about their powers.  John had asked the odd question concerning Sherlock’s mutation and vice versa (on the rare occasions when Sherlock couldn’t just observe what he wanted to know) but their pasts, their mutant lives before they met, were never talked about.  However, John wasn’t stupid (no matter what Sherlock said) and it didn’t take a genius to figure out something had happened in Sherlock’s history.  Considering his mutation and personality, John would have been more surprised if Sherlock’s life had been idyllic and peaceful before they met.  The past was never spoken of and John knew better than to press for information, so they waited, waited until Sherlock was ready and willing and, if not entirely happy, at least comfortable with the risks.

 

Due to the nature of their relationship, very few people knew about them.  Lestrade figured it out, much to Sherlock’s surprise, and congratulated them both after a case.  John noticed how the smile he gave Sherlock was filled with delight but there was also relief and reassurance in that gaze.  Mycroft knew as well, of course.  John suspected there was nothing the eldest Holmes did not know when it came to his brother.  Still, John was in no hurry to find out _how_ Mycroft knew; he suspected cameras and considering some of the things he and Sherlock had been getting up to he _really_ did not want to know.

 

Sometimes it was far too easy to forget the risks involved in what they were doing.  There had been several close calls as one or the other of them momentarily forgot what was ‘out of bounds’. For days after each incident they’d both be more cautious, more wary, before their usual closeness returned.  

 

But nobody’s luck held forever and that fact was true for mutants just as much as it was for humans.

 

Over the months, John had noticed a definite pattern to Sherlock’s cases – more times than not there was a chase involved.  Why Sherlock couldn’t just deduce the culprit’s final destination John was never certain, but a back-alley chase was pretty much guaranteed.  Then there were the odd times when their roles were reversed, like now, for instance.  

 

They ran down alleyways, backstreets, over rooftops; John never more than a couple of paces behind Sherlock.  John hoped the guy chasing them was just a human assassin; if mutant powers came into this then they would be in serious trouble – and since when was a ‘ _normal_ ’ assassin a good thing?

 

With Sherlock leading the way they managed to lose the guy without too much difficulty – John doubted there was anyone with a more comprehensive knowledge of London’s short cuts than Sherlock.  Even when they both knew they’d lost him, they kept running; the adrenaline and the rush of it was too heady to give up just because the danger had passed.

 

They made it back to Baker Street, practically slamming the front door shut as they raced up the steps to their flat.  John shut the door behind him, falling back against it, giggling as the adrenaline began to fade from his system.  Sherlock spun back round to face him, grinning as he too glorified in their escape and the rush of the chase.

 

John closed his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against the door as he continued to giggle and grin.  There were faint sounds of movement and suddenly he could feel Sherlock close in front of him – very close – and without thinking he leant forwards and kissed him.

 

It should have been a shock, something should have reminded him about why this was such a terrible idea, but as he rode the last wave of his adrenaline high he didn’t care – he was kissing Sherlock and it was glorious.  In John’s defence, it wasn’t entirely one-sided; Sherlock might not have initiated the kiss but he was certainly making no effort to break it – he was just as caught up in it as John was.

 

At first everything was as it should be – a lick of lips, an opening of mouths followed by exploratory tongues; it was perfect and the world around them seemed to fade away.  Then everything changed.  It was the fastest crash in adrenaline John had ever experienced; he felt exhausted, _drained_.  He couldn’t catch his breath and if Sherlock hadn’t suddenly surged forward, pinning him to the door, he would have collapsed as his legs lost all their strength.

 

Only now could he remember why this was such a disastrous idea, he could remember why they’d never done it before and if he hadn’t been trying desperately to figure a way out of the situation he’d be mentally slapping himself for being such an idiot.  Sherlock didn’t seem aware of John’s peril.  He began attacking John’s mouth more fervently, deepening the kiss as if John was all that was keeping him alive.

 

John could feel what was happening all too clearly, the flow of life passing steadily into Sherlock, and there was nothing he could do.  Lestrade’s story had given him an idea of what it would be like, but he’d underestimated just how weak he’d be, just how paralysed.  If Sherlock didn’t come to his senses soon, John wasn’t sure just how much life he’d have left.  Despite that realisation, he couldn’t find the right level of fear.  He was more afraid of what would happen to Sherlock should he be killed than he was of being killed.  It was completely irrational and totally lacking in self-preservation, but he hated to think that one of his stupid mistakes might destroy Sherlock.

 

All of a sudden, the contact between them broke and John sank to the floor.  He didn’t understand why Sherlock had stopped – he’d shown no signs of slowing or dawning awareness, but now wasn’t the time to question it.  He was alive and right now that’s all that mattered. Just before he lost consciousness he could have sworn he saw Mrs Hudson’s face hovering above him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have made such a vast error in judgement? Wasn’t he supposed to be a genius? Wasn’t he supposed to be _better_ than this?

 

It had been so intoxicating having John that close, adrenaline clearing his mind of anything but John. And then John had kissed him. He should have pulled away, should have run then and there, but it was just so much of what he’d wanted; the fact that he was finally kissing John overwhelmed the warnings screaming in his head.

 

That was when the transfer of life had begun. All thoughts of stopping fled his mind as the combination of adrenaline and the high erased everything but the desire for more. He’d been starved for so long that any semblance of control vanished and he surged forward, holding John up with his body against the door.

 

He had no idea how long he’d been kissing John, no idea how close to death he was when he felt a pair of hands grab him by his coat and pull him away.

 

At the sudden loss of contact Sherlock’s head cleared and despite the rush, despite feeling more alive than he had in years, the full force of the horror at what he had done struck him. It was Victor Trevor all over again and this time Sherlock wasn’t sure he could survive it.

 

Mrs Hudson was now crouched in front of John’s collapsed form, checking him over, taking his pulse.

 

“Calm down, Sherlock, he’s alive,” Mrs Hudson told him without taking her eyes off John.

 

It helped a little – John was alive, he would survive, it was nothing like Victor Trevor, John was _alive_. Still, how much life had he taken? How could John ever forgive him for taking away years of his life in an instant? It didn’t matter who’d started the kiss, Sherlock had done nothing to stop it. It was his fault John was unconscious on the floor and once again the benefits weren’t worth the risks.

 

“Sherlock, stop pacing; he’s going to be fine.” She grabbed the Union Jack cushion off the armchair and placed it under John‘s head. “There, that’s a bit more comfortable for him. Wouldn’t want him getting a cricked neck on top of everything, would we?” Happy with how John was faring she turned her attention to Sherlock. “It only looks like you took about five years, dear, it’s not a disaster. If you stop pacing I’ll go make us a nice cup of tea and we can wait for the good doctor to come back round.” A sudden sense of calm filled the room and Sherlock stopped wearing a hole in the floor, sinking onto the sofa with his head in his hands.

 

“Would you stop that?” Sherlock said as angrily as he could with the cloud of calm and peace hanging over him.

 

“Not until you calm down and stop blaming yourself,” Mrs Hudson said. Despite her words the sense of tranquility lifted slightly as she made her way into the kitchen.

 

“You know, I’ve always wondered what good a second door was to this flat,” she called out, grabbing two mugs from a cupboard. “My husband always wanted to brick it up, but, well you know how he was, not exactly one for DIY, was he? Bless him.”

 

When she came back into the living area she placed Sherlock’s tea on the table in front of him before taking one of the armchairs and sipping at her own mug. Sherlock didn’t move an inch the entire time.

 

“Sherlock, dear, drink your tea.”

 

Sherlock picked up his mug but didn’t drink any. He loved Mrs Hudson dearly but her ability to alter the mood of a room was rather irritating at times. “How long have you been working with him then?” It was the only explanation for her timely arrival – there was no such thing as a perfect coincidence.

 

“Your brother simply asked me to keep an eye on you. He seems like a lovely man and very concerned about your well-being. He offered to help pay for any damage you caused but I told him not to worry – boys will be boys, after all.” She smiled sweetly at Sherlock over the top of her mug. “Although the next time you shoot my wall I’ll make sure you’re bored and lethargic for a fortnight,” she threatened.

 

Sherlock glared at her. Mycroft must have called as soon as he’d realised what Sherlock was up to. He wanted to be angry at the blatant intrusion but with Mrs Hudson still calming the mood and the fact that her interference had probably saved John’s life, he couldn’t find it in him to be more than mildly irritated.

 

And then there was John. John, who was still lying on the floor unconscious. Pillow or no, he wanted to move him, to at least put him on the sofa so he’d be more comfortable, but he daren’t go near him. What if his control slipped again? What if a sleeve pulled up and they touched? He couldn’t do that to John, not ever, and most certainly not now. Since Mrs Hudson couldn’t move him on her own, John would just have to lie there, but the indignity of it nettled Sherlock. Not even Mrs Hudson’s ability could soothe him right now.

 

“He won’t blame you. He’s a good man, he knew the risks and you can’t tell me you didn’t expect something minor like this to happen at some point? He’ll be fine in no time, and you two can go back on your little adventures as soon as he’s up and running again.”

 

“It’s my fault he’s lying there on the floor. My fault he’ll die five years earlier. He shouldn’t have to make do, he deserves so much more than I can give him.” It was true. Depressing, but true. John deserved everything; he shouldn’t be stuck with a man who couldn’t be touched, who risked his life with every small gesture. Sherlock wanted John to be happy and how could anyone be happy like this?

 

“If he deserves happiness then he’s meant to be with you, Sherlock. You’re a good man and John knows that. Let him make these decisions for himself.” Mrs Hudson’s voice took on an edge of steel. “If I find you’ve gone and left him or driven him away on purpose I won’t be best pleased. He’s a smart man. I expect he knows what he wants.”

 

She got up out of her chair and headed back into the kitchen to wash up her now empty mug. Sherlock still hadn’t taken a sip of his tea.

 

“I know it’s hard, dear,” she said standing between the kitchen and living room, “but things have a way of working out. Let him rest and don’t beat yourself up over it.” With one final glance at John and a nod to Sherlock she made her way back downstairs through the door in the kitchen.

 

As soon as she left the calm that had filled the room lifted leaving Sherlock to deal with the full weight of his blame and guilt. He knew Mrs Hudson had a point. He should let the final decision be John’s, but the truth was he knew John would make the wrong decision. Emotions would overrule logic and John would stay and keep putting himself in danger. John might think he’d be happier but how could he be, knowing that touching his partner could kill him? With Victor it had been different. Victor could heal himself, his death had been a shock – that a regenerator could _die_. John might be a mutant but he was certainly not immortal.

 

He couldn’t trust John to make the decision, not the _right_ decision, anyway. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he would cope, but surely knowing John was alive and happy _somewhere_ was better than having him close by and dead.

 

He needed to think, somewhere where he could rid himself of emotions and think logically. Here in 221B with an unconscious John Watson was most definitely not that place. He didn’t really want to leave John alone, but if he couldn’t leave John now he had no hope when he woke up. He just had to remind himself that this was for John, for his health and happiness; if he made himself miserable so be it. John was all that mattered.

 

Decision made, he headed to the kitchen door. He forced himself not to look at John as he left the flat and walked out onto Baker Street. John might hate him at first, but he would be safe. He should be allowed to love someone he could do everything with and not risk death; he shouldn’t have to put up with a freak.

 

~ ~ ~

 

John came to slowly, his eyes flickering open. One of the first things he noticed was that he was still lying on the floor but now there was a cushion under his head – for comfort maybe? Who had put it there? Sherlock would have been John’s first answer, but that meant getting close enough to touch him. With what had happened that didn’t seem very likely.

 

Speaking of Sherlock, where was he? John pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better look around the room – no, definitely no Sherlock. The flat was silent, the only sounds coming from Mrs Hudson downstairs. Mrs Hudson – hadn’t she been up here? He thought he could remember seeing her face looking down on him but it was too hazy, like a memory from a dream. He could ask her later, right now he needed to find Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock!” He called out as he stood up. “Sherlock, if you’re hiding you need to get out here right now.” John made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom; maybe he’d gone to sleep off the high. There was no one inside – to be expected really, since when did Sherlock willingly sleep?

 

Sherlock had always withdrawn after near misses and this, well, this was so much worse. John ran upstairs to check his room and the bathroom – making a special point to avoid looking in the mirror – but they were both as empty as the rest of the flat.

 

He needed to stop panicking – Sherlock wouldn’t just leave him, not whilst he was still unconscious on the floor, not before they’d talked about– oh, who was he kidding? It would be exactly like Sherlock to run off afterwards.

 

How could he have been so stupid as to _kiss_ Sherlock? What had he been thinking? And now Sherlock was gone and God knows what he’d do in his current state of mind. John had to find him and find him fast.

 

With that in mind he ran back downstairs into the living room; maybe Sherlock had left a clue or a note or _something_ that would tell John where he’d gone. That was when he saw the stone cold cup of tea sitting on the cluttered coffee table. Sherlock had been gone a while then; was he on his way back already? _Or maybe he’s never coming back_ , the more pessimistic side of John thought. No, he mustn’t think like that; at the very least Sherlock would have to come back to collect the rest of his stuff. Sherlock shouldn’t be the one to suffer because of John’s stupidity.

 

They’d gone for so long without any mistakes they’d both been lulled into a false sense of security. John wished he could just talk it through with Sherlock, apologise, make better plans for the future but he couldn’t do that with an empty flat. What good was his power right now when what needed fixing was a relationship and not a machine?

 

Searching the flat was useless, John decided, there was nothing there. Perhaps, if it had really been Mrs Hudson he’d seen, she knew where Sherlock had gone. It was a long shot but John was getting desperate.

 

“Mrs Hudson!” he cried bolting down the stairs to 221A. “Mrs Hudson, have you seen Sherlock?” As soon as Mrs Hudson opened the door John’s panic inexplicably calmed a little.

 

“Not since earlier, dear.” So it _had_ been Mrs Hudson he’d seen before he’d passed out. That was one mystery solved at least, sadly just not the most important one right now.

 

“Oh, well, if you see him could you let me know?” Not that there’d be much point; if Sherlock did come home John wouldn’t need Mrs Hudson to tell him.

 

“Of course. Don’t worry I’m sure he’ll turn up. Sometimes they just need some time to think.” John didn’t tell her it was what Sherlock must be thinking that had John so worried.

 

With a forced smile, he thanked her and made his way back upstairs to the flat. This was hopeless; he needed to talk to Sherlock, he needed to make him realise that it had been an accident. If anyone was to blame, it was John. He knew Sherlock would be blaming himself, knew he’d be thinking up various ways to take himself out of the picture, to keep John _safe_. He’d completely ignore the fact that John didn’t want to be kept safe, that John wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to come home.

 

John was startled out of his thoughts by something vibrating against the coffee table. Scrabbling about on the table, pushing papers aside, he found his phone with one new text message.

 

 

_Sherlock safe. Will return in 2 hours. MH_

 

So Sherlock was safe, but did that mean physically, mentally or both? It wasn’t the physical side John was worried about. Did Mycroft know what had happened? Did he know why Sherlock had left? And what was this about returning in two hours? It seemed rather specific if Sherlock was just wandering about blaming himself, but maybe Mycroft had given Sherlock a time limit? Why did he have to be so cryptic about everything?

 

He hoped that Mycroft was talking some sense into him and not giving him more reasons to leave. He could see it as well, could see Mycroft chastising Sherlock for being so foolish and reckless for ever thinking he could have a relationship with John– no, he had to stop thinking like that. For all he knew Mycroft was persuading Sherlock to come back. He mustn’t jump to conclusions, he just had to wait.

 

Two hours was a long time. John couldn’t get his mind to shut off; it was hard when you had nothing to distract from the constant attack of inner thoughts. He made multiple cups of tea to try and take his mind off it but all that resulted in was a hasty trip to the bathroom.

 

He’d managed to avoid looking in the mirror earlier but now curiosity got the better of him. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought; he’d let his imagination run away with him, thoughts of pure white hair and a heavily wrinkled face had been plaguing his mind. The reality was much more subtle – his hair had a few more light patches of grey and there were a few more wrinkles on his face but it wasn’t too noticeable. If he had to guess, he’d say he looked about forty now rather than his actual thirty-five years.

 

Five years then, give or take. Well, that wasn’t so bad, Lestrade had had it worse. Five years was nothing, he almost wanted to laugh at it all.

 

Checking his watch, he realised he still had an hour before Mycroft’s two hours were up. Staring at himself in the mirror wasn’t helping matters so he made his way slowly back downstairs – maybe some television would keep his mind off of everything. Preferably something in the flat would break and he could figure out how to fix it. At least then he’d be _useful_ , but since Sherlock was out, the chances of something breaking weren’t very high.

 

With a sigh, John flicked on the telly to some documentary about space. It reminded him of Sherlock and that conversation they’d had after John’s first blog post. He changed channel – murder mystery – change – Jeremy Kyle – change – some news programme looking at the ‘ _mutant condition_ ’ – change. In the end he settled on an old repeat of Top Gear and waited for Sherlock’s return.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Even with the television on to distract him, it seemed like forever before he heard the dull thud of footsteps on the stairs. Turning off the TV, he had to remind himself that it might not be Sherlock; Mycroft might strive for omniscience but everyone makes mistakes. It didn’t help that a large part of him had been confident Sherlock wouldn’t be returning.

 

It turned out his worries were unfounded as Sherlock stepped through the door into the living room.

 

“Oh thank God! Where the hell were you?” John jumped up out of his chair as all the worry from the last couple of hours finally found its target. He knew he should probably be comforting Sherlock, telling him that it was alright, but right now he was just relieved Sherlock had come back at all.

 

“I had to think.” Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s gaze. This, more than anything that had gone before, scared John. Sherlock would always, _always_ meet someone’s gaze. This was definitely not good.

 

“Could you not have thought here in the flat? I woke up to find you gone without any sort of explanation– Christ, Sherlock, do you have any idea how worried I was? I thought you’d run off, or worse!” John tried to calm himself down. Yes, Sherlock shouldn’t have run off but it wasn’t Sherlock who’d started this whole thing in the first place. “Look, about what happened earlier, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

 

Sherlock’s head jerked up at John’s apology. “You think this was _your_ fault? Are you really that stupid?” Sherlock ignored John’s scowl. “What happened was a perfectly natural reaction to tension and adrenaline, and if it had been anyone else we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We’d be in bed. How is my mutation your fault?”

 

“It’s not, and it’s not yours either. You can’t choose what your mutation does. I knew perfectly well what would happen when I kissed you and I was still stupid enough to fucking do it anyway, okay? That is what I’m apologising for, that’s the only reason this happened.”

 

“If it had been anyone else…”

 

“But it wasn’t. I don’t want to kiss anyone else, Sherlock, so stop trying to excuse me.” John took a breath to steady himself. “Where did you even go for two hours?”

 

“I told you, I had to think.”

 

“And? What conclusions did you come to?” John wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what conclusions he’d reached if Sherlock had been blaming himself.

 

“That it’s not safe to be round me; that I should never have let this relationship begin, let alone continue as it has; that I won’t keep risking your life like this. That something has to change.”

 

“Sherlock, no. I know the risks, I saw what happened to Lestrade and I don’t care. I saw what happened to _me_ and I don’t care.” There was no way he was going to let Sherlock talk himself into leaving.

 

“Then you are an idiot. It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock continued when John tried to interrupt, “I’ve already taken the necessary steps.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Had he found somewhere else to live in those two hours? “Are you moving in with Mycroft? Is that why he texted me you were safe?”

 

“Mycroft texted you? He said he wouldn’t tell you.”

 

“Tell me what? Sherlock, are you moving out? Because you know common decency means you’re supposed to tell your partner and flatmate if you’re going to leave him!”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not moving out and there is no force on Earth that would make me want to move in with Mycroft.”

 

“Then what the hell are you talking about Sherlock?” If he wasn’t moving out did he expect John to leave? He’d said the necessary arrangements had been made, surely even Sherlock would have spoken to him about that before kicking him out?

 

Instead of an answer, Sherlock simply held out his hand to John, his _ungloved_ hand.

 

“What are you doing?” John looked at Sherlock like he’d lost his mind.

 

“Take it.”

 

“What? No! Sherlock, what the hell are you playing at?” Was this a test? Was Sherlock trying to see if John would fall for it, if John had learnt his lesson?

 

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock didn’t look like this was part of some game. He looked earnest and vulnerable. John had never seen Sherlock like this before.

 

“Of course I trust you, but I meant what I said earlier. It won’t happen again.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just take my hand, John. I know what I’m doing.”

 

John hesitated. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t want to hurt him but at the same time he couldn’t see how touching Sherlock wouldn’t drain him. He had to prove that he still trusted him and if this was how Sherlock wanted to do it, then so be it. John wasn’t a coward, and now he knew what to expect. If things went wrong he hoped it would give him enough time to pull away.

 

Slowly, John reached out to Sherlock’s hand. There was a brief moment as his fingertips hovered over Sherlock’s open palm where he wanted nothing more than to draw his hand back to safety but he didn’t. Sherlock’s skin felt smooth, his hands still a little cold from outside. And John was fine. There wasn’t any flow of life, he was still standing, still fully in control. It didn’t make any sense.

 

“What the…? No,” he said looking into Sherlock’s eyes in awe, “really? You went...Why?”

 

Sherlock smiled at the look of wonder on John’s face. “I realised that I couldn’t leave you without hurting you and I refused to let you leave me. Since the only thing causing all the problems was my mutation I decided to get rid of it.”

 

John was stunned. Not only at Sherlock taking away his mutation but at the fact that Sherlock had considered John’s feelings, that leaving John would hurt him. He was practically speechless. “You...How...When?”

 

“Mycroft is always keeping an eye on me and when he realised what I was planning to do he arranged an appointment at one of his mutant specialist facilities. Plenty of people have taken the cure by now so there was no danger.” Sherlock smiled.

 

“I…,” John blinked. “Sherlock you didn’t need to do that. I honestly didn’t care. I was happy, weren’t you?”

 

“You’re being an idiot again. Of course I was, but I won’t risk taking your life. I should have done this months ago.”

 

“I would never have asked you to do this for me, Sherlock.” Even as he told Sherlock that he could have lived happily without this he was marvelling at the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his.

 

“John, the cure has been around for years now. In those years there has never been anyone I wanted to touch enough to bother taking it.”

 

John smiled happily up at Sherlock. “I love you too, you great idiot.”

 

Their second kiss was a lot less dramatic than their first. There were no fainting bodies or life-energy induced highs, just the feel of the other’s mouth on theirs, the play of tongue and teeth as they both explored the new sensation, both active participants this time.

 

“One thing, though,” John said when they pulled apart, “I’m keeping my ability.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Who else would fix all the things that keep breaking round here?” John laughed before once again claiming Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Life continued as normal at 221B Baker Street, which is to say as abnormally as usual. Sherlock still rushed out on cases and John still happily tagged along. Only now, Sherlock seemed freer. He was more friendly towards Lestrade and his team, less likely to blurt out personal secrets in front of everyone. Donovan had stood in stunned silence for an entire fifteen minutes when Sherlock had complimented her on the cut of her clothes.

 

Some things never changed, though. John had to feel a little sorry for Anderson, but apparently Sherlock’s hatred of him was not something he’d ever had to work on. John had laughed when Sherlock explained that the cure only took away mutant abilities – it didn’t grant superhuman tolerance.

 

Some people claimed mutations made people mad and dangerous, but John knew it wasn’t the power, it was the person. John had fallen in love with Sherlock the person and, with or without his power, that’s how he would stay.

 

Fin.


End file.
